his quiet realm of peace, this rural isle,
This other Eden, demi-paradise
Which you and those you serve would now defile
Against all common sense and sage advice,
This isolated prick upon the map,
This precious plot whose narrow, may-hedged lanes
You seek to feed to carrion Birds of scrap
And so convert to cursed, ill-gotten gains,
This little world, unsuited to your need,
This vale the Bard made sacred with his pen
That you would sacrifice to bloated greed
With Flint-knapped words to trick the minds of men -
Heed now the bell, long silent in its tower:
It speaks of England’s wrath, late tho’ the hour.

www.BARDcampaign.org